Been Wanting to Meet You
by tanyart
Summary: The Apple pulls Malik into the future where he meets Altair, in a sense, and becomes acquainted with Desmond. Also in another sense.
1. sight

**AN: **Indulgent Desmond character study/metafic through Malik's POV. Warning for taking a pretty cool scenario and making it utterly uneventful.

* * *

><p>The next time Malik opens his eyes, his hand is still outstretched before him, fingers clawed into an empty hold from when he had been trying to wrestle the Apple away from Altair. For one incredulous moment, he thinks Altair had deliberately sent him away, far away, because the very air around Malik feels different. It's cold and smells of old dust, dirt, and something entirely new that he can't place, almost like stepping into a bazaar of foreign traders for the first time.<p>

Dropping his arm, Malik begins to look around, but it's Altair who catches his attention first, sitting in front of him, an elbow propped against a silver table and his cheek resting in the palm of his hand. The younger man seems to be chewing on something and he looks unhappy in a way that Malik has never seen before. He is inattentive, idle, and his posture looks… different.

And it's strange that Malik notices these things first, rather than the fact that Altair is dressed in clothes that strikes Malik as some kind of odd parody of their usual garb—shorter, lighter, and no armor. The man still wears the hidden blade under his left forearm but even before Malik sees the tattoo and five fingers, he already knows that the person in front of him is not Altair.

Their eyes meet and Malik can't be sure, but he swears the other man looks abruptly _more_ unhappy before his gaze shifts away, going back to stare at nothing.

Now Malik's not even sure if the other man can _see_ him. Altair had mentioned some of the visions the Apple had showed him—most of the time he appears as a spectator, an observer—so this must be the case for Malik.

And this must be the future.

He takes a seat next to the Altair's lookalike, careful not to disturb him regardless, and takes in his surroundings. Malik is already aware of the other three people in the circular chamber, fingers clicking away on boards. He assumes they are busy with something, but there is really no point in trying to puzzle out their contraptions without asking. All he can do is watch them work or stare at each of the statues that line the room. (The one in the middle is obviously Altair, and Malik is a little baffled at his own lack of surprise—that Altair would become a prominent person in history to warrant a statue, Malik had no doubt, though that didn't mean he would ever admit it out loud.)

He stands to get a better look, the movement causing his chair to scrape softly and echo around the chamber. To his surprise, a man sitting behind a wall of pictures and papers glances up, and proceeds to spit out the beverage he had been sipping on.

"_Desmond!"_ the man shouts, which draws the attention of everyone else, and suddenly the two women join him, staring. Malik catches the few English words he knows between them, but they are speaking too fast and too quietly for him to understand.

The only person who doesn't seem surprised is Altair's lookalike. He simply looks confused, but he reaches over to brush the back of the dai's hand, the touch light and curious, as if confirming something to himself. The man smiles, a little wry.

"Oh, so you really _are_ here," Desmond says, pulling away, and he shocks everyone again when he speaks in fluent, clear Arabic. "You know, for a second, I thought I was going crazy."


	2. sound

Later, much later, after everyone has calmed down, Desmond tries to answer all of Malik's questions. For the sake of keeping it brief and simple, Malik starts with the most pressing ones: what year is it, where they are, and if they happen to have the Apple with them. Anything else would be details he does not need to know, and Malik feels adamant about keeping it that way.

He finds that it's the year two-thousand-twelve, they are in Monteriggioni, Italy, and the Apple, of course, isn't in their possession, but Desmond assures that they are working on that.

(He also discovers that Desmond is a descendant of Altair. Malik takes the news in stride; if Altair somehow ends up with a towering statue then it's not so farfetched in comparison that he has — or _had_ — a son too.)

Introductions are awkward; Malik does not know who these people are, but Lucy, Shaun, Rebecca, and Desmond seem to know him well enough. And, to be honest, it is almost _too_ well for comfort, but Malik is in a strange place, and if there are people who understand that his short temper and sarcastic remarks are not completely unfounded then he is capable of being grateful.

"Sorry for ignoring you earlier," Desmond says, handing Malik a flask-like thing of water. (Malik nearly drops it—it's _freezing_.) "Sometimes I see things that aren't real. Usually I'm pretty good at telling, but I guess I can't be right every time."

Though Desmond sounds remarkably cheerful about it, Malik tactfully doesn't comment. He nods, accepting the apology, and takes a sip from the flask. The water may be too cold, but it tastes clean, like nothing at all. He places it on the ground and decides that since Desmond has been obliging thus far, he gestures to the statue of Altair.

"You look a lot like him," Malik says. "Even the scar."

Desmond casts a thoughtful look towards the statue and he shakes his head, shrugging. "I can't really explain it. An insanely strong bloodline maybe?" he muses, and laughs a little. "_Genetics_."

The last word is said in English and Malik finds it fascinating. When Desmond speaks Arabic, he sounds exactly like Altair, right down to the infliction and emphasis on certain syllables, the measured pacing of his sentences and the flattened, educated drawl of someone who was raised in Masyaf. It puzzles Malik, since Desmond is a person of another time and place, yet the younger man keeps all the little vocal tics and habits that Malik had thought were unique to only Altair.

It doesn't seem to suit Desmond, who smiles and laughs more frequently than Altair ever would (exempting the fact that Desmond's smiles tend to be fixed at times and his laughter strained), and the dissonance becomes more unnerving when the man switches to English. His voice is milder, more open, and — Malik thinks with a private smirk — less inclined to sound arrogant.

He can tell he is not the only one unsettled by it. The woman, Lucy, often looks up from her work, listening as Desmond talks with Malik. At first, Malik reads her anxious expression as being suspicious, but the reason behind her worry becomes apparent when, in the middle of their conversation, Desmond's steady gaze turns and follows an invisible line.

"Hey, Malik, where are you going?" he asks, standing and talking to empty air.

Malik hasn't moved. Lucy opens her mouth to say something, but Malik's bewilderment passes and he takes Desmond by the hand in a firm grip.

"I'm here," he says, ignoring how Desmond jolts and stares at their hands. It is, however, harder to ignore how he resembles Altair for a moment, and not just in appearance; he tightens his fingers and tenses his arm as if he is going to pull Malik up with him, eyes bright and lively and all too familiar.

Frowning, Malik stays put, unwilling to let Desmond move him — not if he's projecting Altair. That sort of intimacy, however small and insignificant, isn't something he gives away to anyone, and a part of Malik becomes livid at Desmond for using it, intentional or not.

The insistent tug on his arm subsides and, suddenly, Altair disappears and there is only Desmond, looking disturbed and upset. With a quiet curse, the younger man rubs the back of his head, knuckles grinding against his temple in a visible effort to keep it together. It only takes him a few seconds before he huffs in annoyance, as if it was as simple as letting it all out in a single breath. He sits back down, letting go of Malik's hand as an afterthought.

"Sorry."

"It's fine," Malik says, reaching for the water flask. He offers it to Desmond and takes a sip for himself when Desmond declines. From the corner of his eye, he sees Lucy slump a little in her chair and it's difficult to not care or ask or do something that is more than _hand-holding_. He has enough problems back in his own time and it's tempting to raise questions about the future—and not just his immediate future either, but the Brotherhood's as well.

And Malik's not blind. He can see it for himself; four Assassins in a ruined sanctuary with resources so thin they can barely acknowledge that he, someone from hundreds of years ago, is _here_. It's not apathy or indifference—it's just that they are too busy and too desperate for something Malik doesn't know about or understand.

So, no, things are _not_ fine.

It's a hard blow to take, especially when just a few hours ago, he had been in the process of rebuilding the very thing he sees crumbling around him now. He glances at the statues, observing how they look worlds apart from each other but yet the crests they bear remain the same. There is some relief in that, he supposes, and turns back to Desmond.

"When I return to my time," Malik says, because he's sure he _will _return, "Is there anything that we must do? Or change?"

Desmond takes a while think of an answer.

"No," he eventually says. "I don't think it would make a difference. Just keep doing whatever it is you've done. I know it doesn't look too good right now, but you and Altair have done a lot of great things."

The sincerity in his voice makes Malik pause, struggling to accept the idea and not feel too relieved about it— he hasn't actually accomplished anything _yet_.

"It would help if you were a little more specific," he says dryly.

Desmond laughs. "It's a long list, but first let's get you back so you can actually do them," he says, rising to his feet. "Altair won't be able to do it without you."

Malik wants to ask how Desmond knows, if there are history books or stories, or if it's some form of reincarnation or the same special vision Altair uses that makes the younger man sound so sure. But before he does, Desmond lays a hand over Malik's right shoulder, giving it a little squeeze and a gentle shake. It's easy and affectionate, like something an old friend would do, and Malik realizes that _this_ must be a real part Desmond, even if it sometimes overlaps with Altair. The question fades from his mind and he relaxes.

"Lucy," Desmond calls out, the dissonance in his voice ringing as he switches to English. "_I'm good to go now. Hook me back up._"

Lucy gives him a considering look. It's difficult to understand what they are saying, not because Malik doesn't know the words, but because the context is lost on him.

"_It's Sunday. Only if you're feeling up to it_," she says firmly. They talk for a while longer, with Rebecca and Shaun chiming in. It's not quite an argument, the way everyone seems to worry about each other, but in the end, they don't appear to have many options to choose from.

"_Well, the sooner we find the Apple, the better_," Desmond says, deciding it. He falls into a large, red chair and throws Malik a reassuring look, switching to Arabic as though he can sense Malik's unease. "And the sooner you can go home, too."


	3. proprioception

"_Put this on._"

Malik holds the device between his fingers, watching as Rebecca pantomimes the motions of putting _in his ear_. He doesn't need to say anything to convey his skepticism, the frown and raised eyebrows being clear enough. Clicking her tongue impatiently, Rebecca takes the device from him and carefully hooks it over his right ear.

"_Don't panic. You should be hearing things from the earpiece,_" Rebecca explains and, a second later, her voice buzzes in his ear, repeating the same thing in Arabic. "Is it working?"

Trying not to let his discomfort show too much, he nods. "Am I allowed to take it off?"

Rebecca grins. "Anytime you want, but it helps to have it on if you want something when Desmond's in the Animus." Pointing to her own earpiece, she explains, "It'll allow us to understand what we're saying to each other."

Shaun makes a quiet noise of surprise from his desk. "How did you even manage to rig these up so fast? Were you expecting some Syrian guy from a thousand years ago to just magically appear today? It would explain how you seem to already have these on hand."

"There's a time-traveling joke I can make, I just know it," Rebecca says, earning eyerolls from Shaun and Lucy. She smirks, evidently proud of her handiwork. "I took the language program from when Desmond was A- _ah_, at Abstergo and connected to our headsets. It's the same program we use for Baby, only we're using it for real instead of inside Desmond's head. It's not perfect, but it'll do."

For something that isn't perfect, Malik is nevertheless impressed. After exchanging a few more impressionable words with both Lucy and Shaun, he notices the slight delay with the translations, resulting in an odd, desynchronized run of double voices from whoever is speaking. It's jarring enough to make him maintain his silence for a while, but the growing curiosity for this era is overwhelming.

So with the barrier of language removed, he spends the next few minutes inquiring about Desmond and the Animus. The younger man is lying comatose in the red chair, unmoving and silent, though Malik can see Desmond tense and relax every so often. Judging from the way everyone is monitoring him, Malik guesses this isn't a common practice.

"Basically, the machine allows Desmond to relive the memories of his ancestors. That's how we plan to find the Apple," Rebecca explains. "Right now we're looking through Ezio's memories — he the Grandmaster of the Order in Rome about five hundred years ago."

Her tone is genial, but somewhat distracted, and Malik easily recognizes it as someone who is focusing on other things. He refrains from asking any more questions, and instead takes the initiative to look around the chamber for himself. Shaun's work area catches his eye first; Malik doubts he'll be able to understand the machines the others are working on, and in the midst of all this advance technology, a simple map tacked to a wall of papers and pictures is a welcome sight.

As he walks over to the makeshift wall, Shaun glances at him, but doesn't say anything. Taking it as a sign that he's allowed to look, Malik studies the maps, surprised to find that the concept hasn't changed much. There are a few places he's even familiar with – the European and the Eastern lands—but one sheet in particular makes him pause.

"Is this the map of the world?" Malik asks, pointing. "How accurate is it?"

Shaun does not bother turning away from his work, though his brow furrows as he clicks away on one of his devices. "I don't think I should tell you. It'll be about another hundred years for you before a barely decent world map comes along, but since you sound pretty sure of yourself; yes, it is. And it's_very_ accurate."

Malik runs his finger down the parallel lines and coordinate grids, careful not to disturb the marked places. "Another hundred years?" he muses. He steps back, shaking his head in disbelief. "Is that what the history books say?"

The clicking stops and Shaun throws him a sharp look. He leans forward in his chair, and Malik can see that the man has the genuine interest of a historian. "Maybe you ought to correct me then," Shaun suggests.

Malik smirks. "I don't think I should tell you."

"Don't be coy," Shaun sniffs, returning to his work and leaving Malik on his own once more. "When I'm done, expect some questions."


	4. touch

Sleep comes easy for Malik, who is exhausted by the time he is given a thick blanket to rest on. He remains unconscious for the majority of the night and wakes up without knowing what time it is. The hum and glow from the machines are too bright and loud, now that he is left alone with nothing but his thoughts to plague him, and he knows that he will not be able to go back to sleep again. It must still be early, for the others are not awake yet, though Lucy is missing, most likely keeping watch out of sight in the stairway.

Staring at the ceiling, Malik thinks back to the moment the Apple sent him away, trying to imagine what he felt and thought. He knows the Apple reacts more to the state of minds rather than the force of clenched fingers holding it. He remembers feeling angry and anxious, only wanting take the Apple away just so that Grandmaster could eat or, if Malik was so lucky, actually lie down and rest.

Maybe it would have been better if he _had_ waited for Altair to pass out at his desk, instead of asking, of demanding and shouting, so that he could simply steal the Apple, ride out Altair's furious silence, and return it after he had gotten a few hours of sleep. It's a shame that he respects Altair too much for that, for all the good it did him; when it came down to it, Malik had grabbed the Apple, pulling Altair along and trying to wrench it free. It is _his_ fault that he had given Altair the chance to fight back, so it was Altair's choice to never let go.

And the thing that frustrates Malik the most is _knowing_ that Altair would still be at it, sitting listlessly at his desk, looking and searching for him through the Apple. It makes Malik put a hand over his eyes, blocking out the unnatural light from the machines, all too aware that now he is just another excuse for Altair to use that wretched Apple.

Someone shifts beside him, the movements too deliberately soft to be that of a restless sleeper. Malik opens his eyes, meeting Desmond's watchful gaze.

He looks thoughtful in a sort of sleepy way, as if he is still caught between wakefulness and a faraway dream. His eyes are dark, and Malik notices for the first time that they do not hold the same golden glint as Altair's, but Desmond squints, just the tiniest bit, and Malik has to stop himself from shaking his head; he has seen that look before.

"Are your eyes really that bad that you need to use that?" he asks, amused.

Desmond blinks, and sounds guarded when he replies, "No harm in checking."

Malik sits up, wary, but Desmond is already getting to his feet, kicking his blankets into a somewhat neat pile and leaving Malik to stare after him.

Like his eyes, Desmond is only a fleeting image of Altair. He pulls on a dark shirt and puts on a pair of pants over the shorter, thinner pair he is wearing, covering a body that does not nearly have enough faded scars or the beginning of new ones. It isn't fair that Malik keeps comparing, but it is inevitable, in the end, when Desmond kneels down in front of him with a smile that is too eager, too challenging, and too much like Altair.

"I'm going out for a run. Want to come?" he asks, innocent in everything he does, because there is no way he is doing this to Malik on purpose.

And even if he was, Malik doesn't think he can refuse. He stands, accepting the invitation with silence, and feels a little unbalanced when Desmond grins up at him from the ground. For a moment, he forgets where he is, and raps a knuckle over Desmond's forehead, lingers there for half a second too long, and brushes over the line of Desmond's short hair.

Slowly, the grin fades into a rueful smirk with just enough embarrassment to acknowledge that they both made a mistake somewhere within those seconds. Desmond clears his throat and Malik withdraws his hand. Standing, he bumps against Malik's arm in another friendly gesture, and Malik is beginning to learn that Desmond likes to touch, to clasp and feel, in a way that is effective as speaking out loud – something that Altair does not do, unless he is with someone he trusts (and even then, his gestures are fleeting and easy to miss at the best of times).

Desmond shows him outside, stopping at the entrance to greet Lucy. She glances at Malik, but instead of objecting, she only laughs, quiet and tired. "_Keep Desmond out of trouble_."

Malik is without the earpiece, having taken it off to sleep, though it does not stop him from answering in English. "_How much trouble could he be?_"

It gets a raised eyebrow from Desmond. He ignores Lucy's chuckling, reaching out to pat her shoulder, and Lucy leans into it briefly. "_Don't make me have to come and get you_," she jokes.

Desmond promises with a crooked grin, and turns to Malik. Outside, the air is warm and clear and refreshing after being kept inside for so long. The sun has not risen yet, but Malik takes his first good look around, curious about the tall lamps and the strange architecture of the large building they had been hiding under. Desmond gives him a minute before Malik senses his restlessness and motions for Desmond to lead the way.

They jog over a stone pathway and over grass, passing trees and even a well until there is a guardrail in front of them. Desmond hops onto it, easily finding his balance, and looks down at the expanse of rooftops and streets of Monteriggioni. He looks over his shoulder at Malik.

"When I said I was going out for a run, I hope you didn't actually expect a flat surface," he says, and has to move out of the way when Malik brushes past him, leaping off the rail and landing lightly on the rooftop below.

"It didn't even occur to me," Malik answers, amused to find that even after a thousand years, crossed arms and an eyeroll still conveys the same thing.


	5. body

Desmond runs the rooftops like three different people.

He climbs up ledges with the skill of a man who has done it all his life, but breathes hard like a person unaccustomed to moving his muscles in such a way, grimacing every time his fingers claw over brick and wood. Malik assumes the ragged panting is entirely Desmond, and the borrowed skill is from some other ancestor, the one they mentioned earlier—Ezio. But when Desmond leaps across buildings, he is Altair, right down to the rapid pacing of his steps, the confident spread of his arms, and triumphant gleam in his eyes as he tears through the night air.

And, much to his chagrin, Malik can't keep up.

It is not his one arm that slow him down, or that he cannot always be sure of his footing on strange terrain. Desmond is fast, that much is obvious, but the way he runs is… odd. Sometimes, he withholds his momentum, looking at the ground with uncertainty; at other times, he jumps without hesitation. He swings his hips as if to accommodate the weight of a sword that isn't there, and bends forward as if something heavy pulls him back, a fluttering cape or tailing ends of a robe.

Because of this, when he jumps, Desmond flies higher than he ought.

Because of this, Malik thinks that not even Altair would have been able to keep up.

The thought distracts him, and sends a chill up his spine. Desmond is made of fragments of other people—the parts that make them good on a physical level— and every time Desmond falters over a high edge to withdraw himself and force an ancestor to take over, it seems incredibly sad to Malik.

Desmond waits on the next rooftop, watching him. Malik can't tell if the younger man is impatient or anxious, but either reason is enough for him to rush forward, a question half-formed on his lips before it cuts off with a surprised intake of breath. Malik slips on the loose stonework that suddenly crumbles under his feet. As he drops, he berates himself for assuming that, in the future, everything is built strong and sturdy, even when all the things he has seen so far proves otherwise.

The fall is quiet, the impact less so. Malik hears the broken debris crash beside him, the rush of air that leaves his lungs as his body hits the ground. He coughs with hardly any breath left. His heart is beating fast, and though he has fallen while climbing many times before, the act of slipping always comes as a shock.

Desmond lands lightly on his feet, and the resemblance is starting to wear Malik down. The younger man exclaims in English before switching in mid-sentence to Arabic.

"_Oh, god__._ Are you all right?"

There is an absence of sharp pain, no broken bones or sprained limbs, only the dull ache that comes from, _well_, landing on one's back from a considerable height. Malik lifts his gaze to see where he fell from. He feels fine. He wonders, distantly, if the Apple took only his mind — that maybe his body still sits in the Grandmaster's quarters in a trancelike state, just as Altair's had.

But, no, he tries to sit up and his body refuses to respond without shaking. Desmond kneels beside him, one hand steadying his back to push him up while Malik works on steadying his own breathing. Malik's hand clenches over the left side of his chest, twisting the rough cloth between his fingers.

There is no pain, but he is starting to realize how much he does not want to be here.

Desmond fusses over him in a way Altair never would; he hesitates around Malik, hands hovering uselessly above his arm and legs and points as if toask, _are you hurt here? There?_ Quick to comfort, but not to do anything else.

"Well, can you stand?" Desmond finally asks, growing a little exasperated when Malik continues to look amused.

"For you?" he replies, allowing Desmond to haul him up and support him. "I'll walk."


End file.
